‘Well . . . I suspect . . . death, sire?’
‘Yes, one would suspect death, quite naturally, but would it astonish you to know that in a dying creature’s eyes I see the secrets of existence? Wide milky valleys and fields of low hedges.’ He looked out of his window. ‘I see harvests, forests, snow! The wild liveliness of being and the fragility of living things! The nobility of battle, the last remnants of strength, the honour of exhaustion without yield. All of it mirrored to me from the profundity of the eyes!’ Philip searched for surprise.
The lawyer moved his face accordingly. ‘Surely a holy communion, sire?’
‘Yes . . . but what has it taught me, Nogaret? That is the point.’ Philip sat back, patting his animals. ‘What has it taught me?’
The lawyer waited for elucidation.
‘It has taught me how to act according to the nature of beasts. I have learnt from the fox and from the lion how to frighten off the wolves and how to recognise traps, how to keep myself alive . . . This is a most efficacious learning for a king, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘There is no doubt, sire, that such a learning is most profitable.’
Philip fell into his thoughts and his eyes took on a vague expression. ‘Now in man . . . it is rather a different matter.’
The lawyer made a sneeze. ‘It is, sire?’ he said after collecting himself.
‘Yes, Nogaret. In a man there lies something else! Have you never plunged a dagger into a heart, or a lung, Nogaret?’ He moved his eyes over the lawyer and waited.
He paused to think. ‘Well, sire, I –’
Philip interrupted him, ‘Mark my words, Nogaret, if you are in the right frame of mind when it is done, that is, if you are awake to it as the life is drained away, then something else is revealed. Deeper secrets . . . secrets that are hidden in a man’s soul are laid bare, secrets that exist only in the blood of a man and not in the blood of a beast. Is that not marvellous?’ He paused and stared then at Nogaret with unblinking eyes.
The lawyer yielded his own in acquiescence. ‘Most marvellous!’
‘Mark my words, Nogaret, such a knowledge is a valuable thing . . . but you might ask in what way is it valuable?’
‘Yes, sire, that is . . . perplexing me.’
The King’s gaze broke and he drew into himself, debating the wisdom of divulging his splendid secret. He paused a moment and made his resolve. ‘Listen now and don’t ask me how I have come to know it . . .’
The lawyer moved in a little closer, careful to stay clear of the dogs, whose eyes followed him, as if he were a hare painted in blood.
‘What do you know of demons, Nogaret?’ the King asked with quiet concentration.
‘Demons, sire?’
‘Yes, what do you know of them?’
The lawyer held Philip’s eye and blinked. ‘They are the Devil’s spawn.’
Philip narrowed his. ‘Ahh . . . but the Devil may yet serve the King and therefore God, Nogaret, that is the point.’ He paused, calculating his lawyer’s understanding. ‘Do you find this strange?’
‘Well . . . sire . . . I have not heard tell of it.’ Nogaret cleared his throat and fidgeted with his parchments.
‘You have heard tell how every man has his demon? It is true, Nogaret, there are demons inside us . . . inside all of us. We are stuffed full of them.’
‘Full of demons?’ Nogaret shifted and blinked and shifted again.
Philip was happy to cause discomfort. ‘To the brim full of them! Now here is the point – we can use this to our purposes, in the case of the Templars.’
The lawyer appeared to be struck dumb.
Philip made his voice pleasant. ‘Come, are you not going to ask in what way, Nogaret?’
Guillaume de Nogaret bent his eyes in deference. ‘If I may, sire, in what way shall such a secret be used?’
‘We must first induce a stupor.’
‘A stupor.’
‘In the Templars.’
‘A stupor in the Templars, sire.’
‘Stop repeating everything I say!’ the King thundered. ‘Really, Nogaret! That is becoming a habit!’ He took a moment to wind in his fierceness. ‘I was saying? Yes, the torture must be heavily applied and without mercy, so that the soul begins to leave the body and this, in turn, draws those demons that lie hidden from life and they make themselves manifest in the sweat or the heat vapour.’
‘In the sweat, sire?’
‘Yes . . . and they surface to the tongue which then speaks demonic words. You might ask why this is so?’
‘Yes, sire, that was my next question.’
‘Well . . . have you never seen a man possessed?’
Nogaret gave a shake of the head and a dull expression crossed his face. ‘Not recently, sire.’
‘No? Well then, men who are possessed merely have the evil in their souls unchecked. They lose hold of it, Nogaret, and the evil becomes master . . . It is the same in torture, you see? When a man is in the deepest pain he loses mastery over himself and all that works and weaves within the dark corners of the soul is let loose and is given rein!’
Nogaret squinted, to see it.
‘Evil, Nogaret, can be conjured up like one conjures a spark from a flint stone and this we must do in the case of the Templars. When their pain has caused them to lose the battle with their wits and the evil is called up, then we must take care that the right questions are asked of them so that we are given the correct responses. A catechism of sorts . . . do you follow?’ He looked at his lawyer for a sign of understanding. ‘Inquisitors know such things.’
‘Do they, sire?’ The lawyer seemed hard-pressed to put two and two together.
‘Of course, Nogaret! Though sometimes they torture with too much enthusiasm and inevitably lose their prize.’ He sat back. ‘So far, what do you make of it?’
‘Well, sire, that we are to use demons to conjure up answers to inculpate the Order.’ The lawyer put a lace cloth to his brow.
The King gave him a half-glance, caught up in the grandeur of his plan. ‘Yes by all means!’ He ate a sugared fruit with relish. ‘Does it fascinate you?’
Nogaret cleared his throat and gave an uncertain nod. ‘Thoroughly, your Majesty, my only concern . . . is that . . . it may be . . . in some way . . . impious.’
‘Impious?’
‘The Church may look upon it as . . . sorcery, sire.’
The King sat up again, much struck by this. ‘This is a new thing, Nogaret! Since when have you been so concerned for the opinions of the Church? Was your grandfather not a heretic?’
There was a moment of unease.
‘Yes, your Majesty.’
‘Yes, yes, he was! And you saw him burn to cinders!’
Nogaret’s face became the colour of bone left out in the sun and his fists were clenched, Philip noticed, twisting and crushing the parchments he held in his hands.
Philip’s expression turned to solemn sympathy. ‘Now, now, dear Nogaret, don’t fret, I hold your heresy in high esteem! It is a comfort to me! Think how your hate has served me. How many men would look excommunication in the eye? How many would dare to kidnap a pope or to dispatch another to the upper rooms of heaven? Your manipulation of the curia in the election of Clement was a brilliant exercise in political deceit. Mark my words, it shall go down in history as a fine accomplishment! But my point is this, Nogaret, that I begin to believe that there are moments when remorse breaks through the surface of your contentment, like a fish breaks still water, and creates a ripple . . .’He sat forward again, full of interest. ‘Am I right? Remorse and perhaps fear for your immortal soul?’
The lawyer looked his sovereign in the eye. ‘I was only thinking –’
The King shook a finger at him. ‘Come.’ He smiled feeling a glorious chill. ‘Indulge me, your Royal Highness is curious.’
‘My only purpose, sire,’ Nogaret said to him, ‘is to give selfless devotion to the state. I am its instrument and it is my duty to have no consideration for just or unjust,
for merciful or cruel, praiseworthy or disgraceful, pious or impious, my every scruple must be set aside to secure it.’
‘Oh then . . . not through love for me are these excellent things accomplished?’
‘I beg your leave, sire, but you are, if I may say, the state.’
The King was thoughtful. ‘Yes . . . I am! Good answer. So we shall have no more talk of piety and I shall tell you how this excellent thing is accomplished! Now then,’ he warmed to his subject, ‘where were we?’
‘You were inducing a stupor, sire.’
‘You were listening! Well, well, there are some surprises to this day!’ Then, ‘I told you how you must induce a stupor in your victim and ask the questions afterwards . . .’
‘Stupor first, then questions,’ the lawyer said.
‘That is what I said.’ Philip shot him a frown. ‘Now with that in mind, tell me, what tortures are available to us?’
The lawyer straightened, and to Philip’s mind he seemed more at ease when things turned practical. ‘In my opinion, the foot oven, sire, is an effective instrument since it is cheap and quick to make – a platform, a brazier and a little oil . . .’
‘Is it painful?’
‘It melts the skin from the bones of the feet, sire.’
‘Interesting . . . and?’
‘The rack is useful but costly . . . There are other methods . . . tedious affairs but cheap enough.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘Hanging by the arms or the testicles . . . slow drowning.’
The King turned thoughtful. ‘I have heard of that . . . you pour water continuously down a man’s throat.’
‘Yes, sire. There are also spikes through the nails . . . the pulling of teeth . . . etcetera . . . etcetera . . .’
‘Do not forget, Nogaret, blood! There needs to be blood . . . that is the important thing . . .’ Then something occurred to him. ‘It would be propitious to extract a confession from . . . what in the devil is his name again?’
‘Who, sire?’
Philip took a nut and threw it at his lawyer. The animals lifted their glossy heads from their front paws. ‘The Grand Master, Nogaret! What is his confounded name?’
Nogaret, having ducked awkwardly, now grasped at his back and with a wince answered, ‘Jacques de Molay, sire!’
‘Yes . . . Better to get a confession from him before our impatient Dominicans are blooded.’
‘I shall do my best, sire.’ The lawyer straightened.
‘Oh, one thing, Nogaret, the banker . . . John of Tours . . . we shall keep the hounds from him until the last, at least until he sees to the books of the Order and to our riches.’
There was a nod.
The King looked on his lawyer, expecting more from him.
Nogaret, sensing this, said, ‘If I may say so, sire, this intrigue shall be a fine achievement.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Not the ruination of the Lombards, not even the burning of the Jews shall rival it for profit and advantage.’
‘Yes . . .’ The King’s eyes lingered on something not there but absent, a picture in his mind.
Profit and advantage.
‘All that gold, Nogaret, think on it!’ He became lost for a moment in an imagination that lit up his eyes and filled him with excitement. ‘My treasury vaults shall glow with the light from gold Byzantines, and Paris shall be black with smoke from pyres! Light and dark, Nogaret! Light and dark – from which all things are created . . . Gold and blood!’ He became grave as his soul filled to the brim with a cold excitement. Then as easily as it had come it was gone from him and he slapped both knees.
‘Good . . . I shall make you the Keeper of my Royal Seals at the Abbey of St Martin of Pontoise. It was at Pontoise that my grandfather made a solemn vow to embark on the seventh Crusade, and that is where I shall make my own vow.’
‘To embark on a Crusade, sire?’
‘Yes!’ he said casually, ‘My own Crusade! Against those con-founded Templars who once kissed the hems of my grandfather’s skirts.’
Nogaret nodded as if he were already somewhere else.
The King noticed it and was full of annoyance. ‘Schedule the arrest for late October. Passing winter in a dungeon is good for chilling the blood and loosening the tongue. I shall leave the luring of the Grand Master to you!’
‘Yes, sire.’ Nogaret took a bow.
But Philip punished him by ignoring it and the lawyer left with an air of incertitude, which suited Philip well, since it redressed the balance.
He remained upon his throne, caressing the ears of his animals with a pensive turn, feeling full of obscurity.
Out loud he recited a line from his favourite philosopher, Boethius: ‘The hour of gloom had well-nigh overwhelmed my head. Now has the cloud put off its alluring face, wherefore without scruple my life drags out its wearying delays . . .’
The dog he called Prince whined then.
Philip looked down at his animal and realised with a curious numbness that his thumbnail had been digging into the flesh of the animal’s ear.
16
ONE MAN’S FUNERAL IS ANOTHER MAN’S LURE
Thus shall it be done to the man whom the king delighteth to honour
Esther 6:9
Thursday 12 October 1307
Beneath a canopy of blue and gold stood Philip of France, pale-faced and bored, hugging his royal robes against the frigid air. Next to him his brother Charles sneezed into a lace cloth and sniffed and coughed and feigned grief while at the same time contemplating the voluptuous curves of his next wife, Mahaut de Chatillon. Behind the two brothers and all around were the princes, their wives, Nogaret, Guillaume de Plaisians the Royal Lawyer, Marigny the Co-adjutor, nobles and lesser nobles. Among this shivering and sorry lot stood the Grand Master of the Sovereign Order of Knights Templar, Jacques de Molay, whom the King had personally invited to be pallbearer at the funeral of his brother’s wife Catherine.
Just when things were becoming tiresome, and the body was about to be laid solemn and steady into the frozen ground, the wind picked up its heels causing three things. Firstly, the bishop who presided over the service lost the little book from which he read and was sent chasing it; secondly, one of the attendants lowering the coffin slipped on the muddied snow and the ornate box fell into its hole with an unceremonious thud to a chorus of gasps and wails; and thirdly, the gust swept the canopy that protected the mourners from snow upwards and from its tethers, dragging it like a sail over the little hill outside the abbey, scattering the party and making fly the lilies that had been waiting to be dropped into the grave.
The King, always happy when observing the folly of men, stood therefore amongst this chaos as if it had been created for his own amusement, since it very nearly made him smile to see the fat bishop scurrying over the countryside and Nogaret falling in a tangle as he tried to retrieve the canopy, yelling out curses and holding his back.
Tomorrow he will need that twisted spine of his, he mused, and the wicked thought of it added to his good mood.
Not far from Philip stood Jacques de Molay meagerly attended by a knight companion and two grooms. He too seemed to be observing the spectacle with a fond eye.
Philip took a glance at him and immediately the Grand Master met his stare. It was open and friendly and unguarded, that eye of his.
Philip nodded. ‘Perfect weather for a funeral, Grand Master,’ he called out over the wind as a drift of snow swept them nearly off their feet. ‘Tell me,’ he shouted again, ‘does it snow in the Holy Land?’
The Grand Master shouted back, ‘In some places, your Majesty, but it smells different this snow.’
Philip thought that the Grand Master’s inordinate pride must feel a certain elevation at the honour so personally bestowed upon him. Certainly he appeared serene, like a man who knows that he is esteemed and loved. How could such a man ever suspect the fate that awaited him?
‘Come, Grand Master,’ the King said with exuberance, patting his sides, ‘we shall go to the abbey
where there is a brisk fire in the hearth and the abbess has a good spiced wine to warm our blood.’
‘I thank you, my sovereign.’ The Grand Master bowed. ‘I fear I am sorely needed at the Temple this night since there are some things I must attend to before tomorrow.’
The King was struck by a sudden uncertainty and he looked into those eyes with his heart hammering in his ears. Before tomorrow? The smile froze on his face. ‘What could be more important than taking a glass of wine with your king?’
Jacques de Molay hesitated, made another low, respectful bow and joined the King at his walk, side by side, to the abbey.
Philip looked behind him to Nogaret who was following in their train holding some lilies, which he threw into the grave without ceremony while bracing the small of his back.
‘Get that seen to, Nogaret!’ the King called at him and turned his attention to the Grand Master. ‘Soon his spine shall need the rack to set it straight.’
The Grand Master gave a small restrained smile and Philip gazed out at the afternoon. The sky had turned the colour of rose and the pale light of the setting sun poked through a narrow margin of cloudless sky.
‘Winter has come early!’ said the King and clapped a hand over the Grand Master’s shoulders.
FIRST NIGHT SECOND DAY
PAUSE
To have begun is half the job.
Homer, Epistles
Lockenhaus, July 2006
You are going to the concert tonight?’ the old shopkeeper said, startling me from the story and the dream.
I realised that the sun had long since settled beyond the castle walls, making a dark nave of the avenue of lime trees, and that there were no tourists walking this way and that. The only sounds were night sounds, cicadas and crickets.
I told her it promised to be a good concert, and that I had some tickets if she would like to come with me.
She shook her head as if the thought of it was utterly pre-posterous to her. ‘Oh goodness no! I never go to that village!’ She stood and collected her cards. ‘Come back tomorrow and if I am not dead I will tell you the worst part of it. Before that, I will need to rest.’
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